Cursing Every Hurricane Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Adapting to jealously on a celibate rug-
Reusing airplanes, folding them with spit,
Pretending in coitus,
Each mobile set above the cribs like the stars
Above the fjords of ancient heroes
Going down to sleep with the best monsters
They have slain,
Bleary eyed, making love to their amnesiac sisters
Even as the rest of the world is getting up,
Buzzing, kindling:
And I go down with them, with so many of us
Like little fish, like tatters of silver in their
Masculine shadows- Never more being delivered
To her quite by ourselves,
But handling the pain with masterbation and
Rum from Barbados, ancient and plausible gold,
Ho-yo-hoeing, looking at houses we would like to
Break into,
Swearing our self to the clockwise typhoons,
Cursing every hurricane.